SOTF v2: Endgame

[Cyco†]

"Congratulations, Boy 12. You are the winner." The voice that emanated suddenly from the PA was cold and indifferent, as if it were announcing the winner to a game of bingo at a nursing home. "Please report immediately to the football field for extraction." Bryan didn't so much as look up to acknowledge he'd heard the announcement, and after a moment it piped up again with an impatient tone. "Failure to comply will result in collar detonation."

 "...."

 "Football field. Go."

 "...Now."

 Bryan clenched his fists. Asshole. Fucking piece of trash. Still, it wasn't worth it to get his head blown off just to spite some idiot grunt so he finally raised his head, the tears still hot on his face as he got slowly to his feet. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The fresh stab wounds had an awful sting to them, almost half as bad as the bullet buried under his shoulder. He put some pressure on the former, hoping that would help even a little. The latter hadn't killed him yet, so he could only assume his shoulderblade had prevented the slug from puncturing a lung. Would he bleed to death? He wasn't sure, but the notion hardly bothered him; it remained a benign little thought at the back of his mind as he limped painfully away from Mari's body.

 His imagination played nasty tricks on him as he made his way through the dark. Silhouettes of tall bushes became silent black stalkers, stirring in place as the wind blew and calculating their dark ends. Bryan knew everyone was dead, but he felt as if any second someone would leap out from around a corner and finish him off. He passed a utility shed, and once again the familiar reeking stench of death crept up his nostrils. Bryan had no desire to find out what had happened in there; he felt a cold chill up his spine as he glanced back at it over his shoulder. This place, and the people who littered its ground with their bodies would probably haunt him for the rest of his life. However long or short that might have been.

 The football field was a short walk away, and although he'd had to enter the school again to get out of the courtyard Bryan hadn't bothered going back for his gear. What was the point? Danya's lot would take his weapons away once he got to the pickup site, besides, he wasn't going to try and take them all on with the SPAS-12 and a pocket full of buckshot. No way he had that in him. He doubted he had anything left in him anymore, aside from the crippling heartache. As Bryan arrived at the edge of the field he went to empty his pocket of the useless ammo and noticed the jackknife he'd stuffed in there before. He withdrew it and eyed it over for a second, flicking it open and closing it and wondering if they'd just called him here to meet the firing squad for some sick grand finale. He sat and waited.

 The night air began to fill with the heavy whir of propeller blades as the black silhouette of a helicopter appeared over the nearby trees, red lights flashing and white ones sweeping the ground below to maintain that the landing zone was clear. Bryan deposited the knife quickly in his boot, holding a hand up in front of his face as he rose to keep the old dead grass clippings kicked up by the ostentatious vehicle out of his eyes. A large door slid open forcefully on one side and a few armed masked men filed quickly out, guns and respective flashlights fixed on him. The last to set foot on the damp grass of the field was the only one Bryan recognized, unmistakable with his blond buzz cut and sunglasses.

 "Have fun?" inquired Steven Wilson when the prop finally died, his tone mocking but his expression remaining indifferent. Bryan glared at him with an intense hate but didn't respond. "Whatever," Wilson grumbled, clearly not in the mood for any of it, "turn your pockets out."

 Bryan complied. Although he wasn't feeling particularly accomplished by having stowed the blade away he of course didn't mention it. The 12-gage shells spilled out of his right, and he didn't have anything in his left. One of the grunts, who was closest, turned his light toward the ground and said, "I don't see a knife. HQ said he was carrying a knife in his right pocket."

 "Pat him down," replied Wilson. The grunt slung his weapon over his shoulder and promptly patted his hands up and down Bryan's body, shaking his head upon completion. Wilson waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. The boss is taking extra precautions anyway." He withdrew something small that was hard to make out in the relative darkness and handed it to the lackey, who went about some kind of business at the back of Bryan's collar. Bryan relaxed a bit; he was confident they were deactivating it, because if they wanted him dead they would've just shot him. After a few sharp tones which gave rise to an uncomfortable doubt of his initial theory, the latch on the back of the collar released with a clack and the wretched band fell to the grass like a dead parasite. Bryan touched a hand to his neck and then rubbed it with an uncomfortable grumble, his eyes still fixed on Wilson.

 "What the fuck are you looking at," Wilson grumbled, his typical neutral look unchanged. He turned to another of the henchmen, giving him a quick nod. "Cuff the kid."

 Bryan's hands were restrained in front of him and he was shoved into the helicopter, sitting across from Wilson and two grunts with two more on either side of himself. They sat in silence as the vehicle stirred to life. As Bryan slouched forward and stared past his cuffs to his shoes, it dawned on him what he had to do to make everything right.

 'I have to kill Danya.'

***

 "Hey." They'd been travelling for maybe five minutes when one of the grunts, who was sitting beside Wilson and had been giving Bryan the stink eye off and on, spoke up and caught his attention. Bryan lifted his head and sniffed sharply, unsure if he was talking to him or the guy beside him. He was talking to him. "Hey. I lost money on you."

 Bryan wrinkled his nose at him, trying to figure out exactly what his point was. "You poor thing," he finally responded, and with a disgusted shake of his head went back to staring at his feet.

***

 The sun was coming up, but the only way to tell inside the cramped passenger hold of the helicopter was a minuscule window to each side that let just a bit of light in. Bryan heard one of the pilots up front say something about a landing, and as he perked up Wilson cleared his throat. "Listen, Calvert." He uncrossed his arms and used a free hand to lower his sunglasses so he could make eye contact with his former student. "You try anything at all and I'll kill you myself."

 Bryan didn't respond. He'd never seen Wilson so much as throw a punch, although he'd always had a reputation at Bathurst of being in top shape. The likely probability that this piece of shit he hated so deeply could take him in a physical fight made Bryan's blood boil, but the fact that Wilson was so convinced of it was even worse. He would have to keep a lid on it though, or all of this would be a fucking waste.

 Shortly after the grunt to his right pulled the sliding door open and the one to his left prodded him hard in the shoulder with his AK. Bryan got up, feeling a bit lightheaded as he did so, and stepped out into the cool air and onto the smooth poured concrete of a helipad. He was on a boat, a big tanker or something. He didn't know anything about boats. More armed grunts awaited him at the stairs leading down off the landing pad, welcoming him aboard by pointing their fucking guns at him as if it would take more than one 7.62 at that range to bring him down. Another jab in the back indicated that they wanted him to move forward. He complied. As he approached the stairs he saw an island off in the distance. Was that...?

 "Looks different from far away, doesn't it?" Wilson said casually, and Bryan felt an unpleasant chill at the back of his neck.

 He was shoved through a door, then a hallway, and then down some stairs and then another hallway into a room somewhere below deck. Wilson took his leave with two of the grunts, leaving the other two with Bryan. Flourescent lights lined the ceiling, and they flickered and hummed the way goddamn flourescent lights always did. There was an examination table near the far wall, which the grunts ordered Bryan to go sit on. He did. They stationed themselves next to the door and waited quietly. Before long the door opened again and a thin, mop-headed man with a clipboard walked in. The guards suddenly raised their AKs and pointed them at Bryan, which was nothing short of alarming.

 "What the fuck--!?"

 "Relax," piped the thin man calmly, gesturing accordingly with his free hand. Bryan shut up, but he was still uneasy. "Now listen," he continued, "I'm here to stitch you up, but to do that we're going to need to take off those cuffs. Cooperate and this won't take long. Suddenly decide you want to be a hero..." he glanced at the two guards. "...They'll make sure you're a dead hero. Understand?"

 Bryan nodded, but the thin man wasn't satisfied with this and repeated himself in an impatient tone. "Do you understand?"

 "Yeah."

 "Good." With that he gestured one of the grunts over, who wordlessly removed Bryan's cuffs and stood back. The thin man eyed over his clipboard. "Looks like you've had a rough week. Take off your shirt."

***

 According to the 'doctor', Mari's 9mm slug had indeed been stopped by his scapula. That explained why he was still alive, and additionally why it was fucking killing him to move his left arm. His stab wounds had been sewn up too, and the cut that Dan Birch had given him on day one had been disinfected and redressed. There was also a gauze patch over the wound on his right shoulder that he had forgotten about entirely. After the whole thing was finished he had been wrenched down another hallway to a room with a bed in one corner and a toilet and sink in the other. A cell. He'd been given a few painkillers so at the very least he wasn't in total physical agony anymore, and although by principle he didn't want to touch the food that had been slid in after him he wolfed it down voraciously. He was dead tired, but he couldn't sleep. He sat on the bed, clutching his dirty, bloody shirt and miserably replaying the awful scene of Tori's death in his head over and over. He still couldn't believe she was gone.

 After a while he got up and went to the sink to splash some water on his face, but it was broken and bone dry. He saw himself in the dirty mirror above the sink and stared at his reflection for a moment. He barely recognized himself. He looked thinner--malnourished--his facial hair had become scruffy, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes were even darker, there was some bruising on his temple from his run-in with that brick...he looked like shit. He looked like failure. He furrowed his brow as he caught sight of the silver cross around his neck. Fucking stupid bullshit. His eyes fixed on the mocking symbol of his naivete, clenching a fist until it began to shake and he finally let it fly furiously at the mirror. There was a crunch, and a fraction of the glass dropped noisily onto the floor. With his other hand he wrenched the necklace off and tossed it angrily into the corner, where it disappeared under the bed. His hand stung and had a few small cuts on them that dripped red, but he ignored it and let the small amount of blood soak into his shirt. Bryan gripped the end of the sink and hung his head. That was seven years bad luck.

 'I don't fucking care. Tori...I let you down. I fucking broke my promise.' He grit his teeth, tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't escape that awful moment when he'd been completely useless and unable to save her. He couldn't focus on the beach anymore. He couldn't even fucking remember it. Maybe it had never happened. 'I'm sorry. I wish you could hear me...'

 "...I-I'm sorry," he choked into the silence, but silence has a way of leaving one hanging.

***

 It seemed like ages before the door opened again and another pair of grunts ordered him out of bed. Bryan did as he was told, scratching at the dried tears on his face and putting on his filthy shirt. One of them handcuffed him again, and as he did he turned toward the shattered mirror.

 "You throw a tantrum? Piece of shit," he snarled, hitting the butt of his gun against the back of Bryan's head. Bryan let out a cry of pain and hunched over, cradling his skull with both hands seeing as they were attached at the wrist and all. He was marched out of the room and down another hallway and up some stairs and up some more stairs and down one more hallway and finally into a small room. There were two cushioned chairs on opposite ends of a small round coffee table, one of which had a yellow balloon tied to the arm that said "congratulations". The grunts told him to sit, and he did, and a few minutes passed in silence.

 Bryan grew impatient. The heightened awareness of the knife in his boot made him increasingly uncomfortable. "Who am I waiting for?" he asked after a while, although he had a feeling he already knew.

 "Shut up," replied one.

 "Don't make me fucking hit you again," chimed the other.

 Finally the door opened again, and both grunts offered a salute to the stocky middle-aged man that walked past them carrying a bulging folder. Bryan had never laid eyes upon him before, the short salt-and-pepper hair, the world-weary and yet deceptively sharp brown eyes, the brown goatee...everything except the scar on his cheek was all so easily familiar that he was caught off-guard.

 'Holy shit, Danya looks like my dad.'

 The stocky character took a seat opposite Bryan, who noticed the guards visibly tense-up out of the corner of his eye. He felt himself becoming intensely aggravated by their presence in the room; he'd have wasted a whole fuckload of time and patience if he didn't get the crucial window of opportunity he was looking for.

 "Calvert," Danya grumbled as he let the file drop on his end of the coffee table, sitting back leisurely once his hands were emptied. "Mr B12...I assume you know who I am, right?" After a moment he added, "I'm sure you're not that dense."

 Bryan nodded solemnly, trying not to see red at this of all moments. He could feel the vein on his forehead flaring up though, to which Danya cracked an amused little smile. "Cute," he snickered. "Real cute. Listen, you can dwell on that Johnson bitch all you want. Maybe you should consider yourself lucky to be alive though, and not do anything really stupid. Just a thought."

 Danya waited for a response, but there wasn't any. He didn't seem to care though, and simply shrugged before opening the file and continuing. "That's okay, you can just listen. Hell, you can go ahead and bite through your tongue, drown in your own blood for all I care. The game's over; you've served your purpose. In fact," and at this he produced a pistol from behind him and pointed it at Calvert, "I'm feeling generous. Say the word and I'll do you right now. Right between the eyes. Put you out of your fucking misery."

 Bryan got the feeling that he was going to have to co-operate. "Ok, I get it," he piped up reluctantly, silently contemplating how to take the firearm out of the equation. And those guards, too.

 "Nice to have your undivided attention." Danya paused and lowered the gun with a snort. "I can see why Wilson doesn't like you. You're all action and no personality." He let the pistol rest on the open folder with an indifference that was expected given the two grunts at the door. "You know, when Dodd was in that same chair you're in now he wouldn't fucking shut up with the questions and indignant rants and what-have-you."

 "Sorry to disappoint you. I'm not interested."

 "Rather selfish..." scoffed Danya.

 "What?"

 "Well I figured at the very least--"

 "Selfish!? What fucking game were you watching!?" Bryan snapped back, his fists clenched tightly. He was well aware that this was exactly what he'd been trying not to do, lose it, but he'd be damned if the person responsible for the deliberate death of nearly a whole city of kids would sit there and insult his integrity. "I don't care what your beef is with the fucking US government; fuck them, and fuck you! Nothing you say can justify this! You know what I wanna know? What this has to do with fucking civilians! Why you don't have enough balls to pick on someone your own size!" Bryan began to stamp his foot hard against the floor as he shouted, tears beginning to well in his eyes. He could see that the guards had had enough and were coming to shut him up. "I wanna know why Tori had to fucking die for your stupid bullshit that had nothing to do with her!"

 "Sometimes sacrifices must be--"

 "Shut up! Shut the fuck up you dickless piece of shit!"

 Suddenly there was a solid impact on the side of Bryan's head, no doubt the butt of an AK-47. He fell forward onto the table with a pained grunt, his head swimming. A pair of hands grabbed him firmly under the arms and sat him back in the chair.

 "Well at the very least we're averaging a healthy conversation," remarked Danya, a smile playing on his face.

 "Fuck," Bryan grunted in response, cupping his throbbing head with his hands. The guards retreated back to the door.

 "Let me get right to the point then, since at this rate you're just going to get yourself killed. As you're no doubt aware, Mr Dodd has been doing a lot of public speaking in the States since he survived the last game. He's got quite a bit of charisma; can really command a lot of respect in a crowd. Yeah, I know he's a celebrity now but still, that only goes so far. He's got a gift." Danya crossed his legs and scratched his nose with one finger. "Spreading 'awareness' of SOTF, as it were. You can call it whatever you want, but in the end he's just spreading fear, right there on the ol' home front." His subtle smile became a toothy grin. Bryan half-expected the rest of him to dissappear like the fucking cheshire cat. "Our unwitting spokesman. Isn't that just the sweetest peach?"

 "Fantastic," Bryan grumbled, his patience circling the drain. "Maybe it's the head trauma talking, but how is this getting to the point?"

 "The point is, are you going to be worth anything at all to us in the United States? It's no simple task getting the winner home, you know; it involves another three or four parties at least. Highly-payed parties. We're not made of money, Calvert. SOTF is expensive. Hopefully no one's noticed the increasing number of cheap gag weapons." He paused as if to let Bryan pipe up again, but he was silent, so Danya continued. "As it happens a healthy portion of our funding comes from various exotic distributors worldwide looking for all the angles, uncensored footage...the director's cut, if you will. We actually have quite a few friends-of-friends-of-friends in America's media, believe it or not. Anyway, here's where you come in. You're something of a favorite in v2. Personally I'm impressed; usually it's only the power players who enjoy that kind of status. But you played hard, even if it was almost wasted on someone else."

 Bryan did a better job of hiding his anger this time. He knew he had to, although it burned in his throat and behind his eyes. On top of that he was finally beginning to understand what Danya was getting at. The sick bastard.

 "Don't let it get to your head though," Danya added, "Mari was much more popular than you. We would've preferred her. Still, when it came down to the two of you we were quite pleased. That shit's going to sell, believe you me. I just hope nobody gets the idea that it's fixed--"

 "Bottom line," Bryan interrupted, unfortunately quite confident in his guess, "you're throwing me back in."

 "Bravo. Took you long enough to catch on."

 Bryan's stomach twisted into knots. His head felt like it was about to explode. He felt dizzy. "And neither of us would've gone home?"

 "Sydney Moravan didn't go home, but that didn't stop the v1 participants from playing their guts out. Desperation is a beautiful thing, Calvert." The sick fuck withdrew a radio off of his belt and held it up to his face. "Wilson, come get your boy and outfit him for v3." There was what sounded like a confirmation laced with static, and Danya turned back to Bryan. "Good luck, Calvert. Hope you draw another shotgun."

 Bryan felt panic begin to overtake him; his window of opportunity was closing. His eyes darted to the two grunts at the door and then back to Danya, who looked quite at ease. Seconds later the door opened loudly and caught the briefest attention of the two guards as Wilson entered the room. Bryan grit his teeth. It was now or never then; he would have to go for it despite the guards. Better to die here than go through another game, he decided as he reached frantically for his boot. He was going to have to move faster than he ever had in his life.

 "I told you to search him!" Danya growled at the sight of the jackknife, sounding less frightened than annoyed as he reached hastily for the pistol. Bryan had planned one step ahead of him though, kicking one leg of the coffee table hard and sending it skidding out of the way. With all the energy he could muster he sprang to Danya's immediate right, reaching out with both arms and managing to get the cuffs just over the stocky man's head. The guards reacted quickly (one of them firing off a hurried shot that buried itself in the empty chair) but he'd been quick himself and managed to catch them effectively off-guard. Wilson was yelling, as were the two grunts as they pointed their Kalashnikovs squarely at Bryan and his hostage, but neither of them were shooting now so it seemed he had them at a standstill.

 "You were saying something about desperation!?" Bryan hissed in Danya's ear, pulling the chains as tightly as he could around his throat.

 "Idiot," Danya wheezed, although it was apparent he was trying to laugh. "You think...this is going to...get you home?"

 "It's gonna get me even, you prick."

 "This is your only warning, Calvert!" Wilson commanded sternly, his hand at his belt where there was no gun but instead a radio. "Release him or you're worm food."

 "Fuck you, Steve."

 Danya was clutching at the short chain around his neck, and finally got his fingers between the abrasive metal and his skin. "Still crying over the bitch then," he grumbled.

 In an instant Bryan shot straight from unstable to complete lunatic. "Don't you fucking call her that!!" he screamed furiously into Danya's ear, his face flushed and looking about ready to explode. "She would've gone home! You fucker! You piece of shit!!" He pulled tighter on the chain, distorting his captive's reply.

 "Wasn't enough to--urk!...kill Mari?"

 Another radical change of volume on Bryan's part. A whisper. "Not by a goddamn longshot."

 "Calvert!" Wilson snapped in an attempt to negotiate with him again, the guards wagging their AKs accordingly.

 "SHUT, THE FUCK, UP!!!"

 "Alright, that's enough!" Danya interjected in an impatient tone that made him sound like he was dealing with a bunch of little kids. "Wilson! Go make the necessary arrangements to send Calvert home."

 Wilson bared his teeth in what seemed like protest, but after a momentary hesitation he disappeared out the door, leaving the two guards behind.

 Bryan scoffed; he'd been quite ready to give up going home for snuffing Danya for a good while now. "I hate to break this to you but--"

 "Shut up for a second," Danya grunted, interrupting him. "I'll make you a deal right now." His hand moved to the radio, and Bryan watched him carefully. "I give the word and my girl Sonja on the other end will snuff Wilson...without question, the moment he arrives."

 No way. No fucking way. "Mother fucker!" Bryan snarled incredulously, although it was becoming more and more obvious by the second that he really should have seen it coming. He shot a glance at the two guards, but neither of them seemed remotely fazed. Given the choice he definitely would've taken Steve Wilson over Danya--his authority over SOTF withstanding--but now that the unbelievable asshole was pulling something like this his decision was easily made out of spite.

 "Of course," Danya continued regardless, "I'm not exactly obliged to do so with a knife against my throat."

 'Fucking obviously.' Bryan was seriously beginning to wonder if he had 'idiot' scrawled onto his forehead or something.

 Danya sweetened the deal. "Cooperate and it just might put me in a good enough mood to forget this happened and give you a second chance to continue. You can start with that knife. Drop it, and Wilson's dead."

 "Forget it," Bryan responded quickly, not wanting to show the slightest bit of hesitation. He pushed the knife harder against Danya's throat. "You're the Ace. SOTF ends with you." He knew he was really just trying to convince himself at this point.

 "Oh, please." Danya shook his head as best he could given the constricting chains around his neck. "You know it doesn't end with me, and I know he's the one you really want dead. I'm giving you such an opportunity here, and you're fucking just throwing it away. I'm not sure if you've noticed, but you're something of a natural at this. You weren't even playing for yourself and you still won. Really think it'd be that hard to win again, especially with the advantage of experience? How about a level of preparedness that no kid fresh from Dumbshit High is going to be able to come close to?"

 "..."

 Bryan wasn't sure if Danya wanted him alive badly enough to follow through with his v3 proposition, but the offer of Wilson's head on a platter was concrete. All he had to do was ditch the knife. Which was getting heavy. So fucking heavy. In fact, every inch of that stuffy little room seemed to be bearing down on him now. He was just so tired. How many years had the past week taken off of his life, exactly? How much further could he go? Could he win again? Fuck sakes, too many questions...

 "Ask yourself this: you think she'd want you to die here as well?"

 Somehow that did it. Danya's words had brought about a moment of brilliant clarity in Bryan's tortured and beaten head. He'd made his decision.

 "This isn't about what she wants," he finally responded. "It's about what I want."


END OF PART 1